Tasting the Soil

I marched across the smooth floor until I hit a ceramic mountain. It was an enormous pot holding a green fern. The dirt inside smelled sharp and damp, just like proper earth should. I poked my curved tusks into the edge and pressed my trunk right into the loose, cool soil. A dry pebble blocked my snout, so I knocked it aside. It was hard and gritty. This corner feels decent. I will stay beside this dirt for a while.